Market Day
by Windchime68
Summary: Anora is Queen of Ferelden, but her husband is not the man she thought he was.  One-shot.


_A/N: I make no claim to any of the characters in this story – they belong to others, and I simply borrowed them for a while. _

_This story came to me after an especially sleepless night, and I thought it seemed like a fun idea, so I ran with it. Yes, my subconscious works in strange ways..._

_Any comments/reviews will be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading._

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**Market Day**

Anora sat in her private drawing room, quietly contemplating her situation. It had become a common pastime of late.

No matter how many hours she spent considering it, that situation never improved.

Of one thing she was certain: marrying that wretched man had been the worst mistake of her life.

Oh, he'd been charming enough, to begin with. And it had seemed necessary, at the time, to consolidate her position. With the benefit of hindsight, she now believed that position had been stronger than she'd realised. But her confidence had been shaken, just enough to matter, by her father's insistence on assuming the mantle of regent in the weeks following Cailan's death.

If her own father didn't think her capable of ruling alone, how could she hope to convince anyone else?

And then _he'd _come along, with his charismatic ways and persuasive arguments. She would never be able to stand against Eamon and Alistair alone, he'd said. But _together_...

He'd managed to keep from her until much later the fact that Alistair didn't even _want_ the throne.

She'd been swayed by the man's quick wit, his obvious strength of character, and his noble pedigree. The fact that he was dashingly handsome hadn't hurt, either.

He'd been clever about it, too. At first it had just been quiet talks together, and he'd hesitantly confided his concerns about Alistair's suitability to rule a kingdom. He'd voiced doubts about Eamon's motives and ambitions.

He'd stroked her ego, telling her how it was clear to everyone that mattered that she, and not Cailan, had been the force behind the throne these many years – and that it was such a shame they couldn't just leave her be to continue doing it. But then he'd allowed just a trace of sadness to creep into his voice as he told her how much support Eamon had in the Bannorn. And there'd been the slightest hint of indignant anger when he'd offered his opinion on how much her father's actions had harmed her own reputation with the nobles.

The quiet talks had become long evenings spent together, and he had turned on the charm, so gradually that she'd had no idea how skilfully he'd played her until it was far too late. She'd actually come to believe herself in love with the man, Maker damn him!

Once he'd secured her interest, he'd played his trump card. Why not present a united front against Eamon and Alistair? He had a certain amount of influence with the Bannorn, he'd said (and oh, how she'd admired his humility as he'd played that down); if he gave his support to her claim, perhaps together they might sway the nobles to their side.

But then his face had fallen. There was still the matter of the succession, he'd sighed. With no children, and no husband, the Landsmeet would surely insist that she remarry to ensure an heir, and without a doubt they would expect her to marry Alistair, so that it would be a Theirin heir. He'd looked at her with eyes full of dismay, as if the thought of her being married to someone else was too much for him to bear.

Oh, clever, clever man! He'd left the bait dangling, and allowed her to put herself on the hook. It had been _her_ suggestion that they present the Landsmeet with a suitable husband as part of the package.

And so it was done. The Landsmeet confirmed her as Queen of Ferelden; and six months later she became wife to Prince-Consort Rodric Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, in a grand, formal ceremony.

What a stunning couple they made! What a perfect match! That was what everyone said.

They didn't know what he was _really_ like.

Rodric was a bastard.

Not in the same sense as Alistair, of course. Rodric's parentage had never been in question. But in his deeds... oh yes, he was a bastard, all right. A scheming, underhanded, _brilliant_ bastard.

Slowly but surely he'd edged his way into the hearts and minds of her people, and into the day to day affairs of ruling the kingdom.

It had started at the Landsmeet, when he'd spared her father's life, only to conscript him into the Grey Wardens. She'd loved him for it at the time. In a single move, he'd not only saved her father, but also rid them of Alistair, who'd been so relentless and hateful in his demands for Loghain's death that no-one had blamed her even the tiniest bit when she'd called for her rival's execution.

But just two months after her father had undertaken the mysterious Joining ritual and become a Grey Warden, orders had arrived, supposedly from their headquarters in Weisshaupt: the former Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, now simply the Grey Warden Loghain, was to report to Orlais without delay.

Anora had begged Rodric to intercede. Anywhere but Orlais, she had pleaded. There surely could not be a less friendly place for the Hero of River Dane to be sent. If the wrong people learned that he was there...

Rodric had tried – or so he'd told her, at least. He'd protested the orders, but his objections were to no avail; he had given up the right to command the Grey Wardens in Ferelden when he became Prince-Consort, and the orders stood.

And so, with tears in her eyes, Anora had bid her father farewell, wondering if she would ever see him again.

There had been no word from him since.

Rodric had assured her that he was likely busy with his Grey Warden duties, but Anora knew better; her father had always made time to write to her, no matter where he was or how pressing his obligations.

With her father gone, the palace had suddenly seemed a less comforting and friendly place.

Almost immediately after her father's departure, Rodric had convinced her to appoint Eamon, of all people, as their chancellor. To placate the Bannorn, he had said, and demonstrate their sincerity to work with the nobles and unite Ferelden.

Shortly after _that_, he had appointed Senior Enchanter Wynne as a court advisor. He hadn't even made a show of consulting her on that one. She'd protested, and he'd apologised profusely. She'd been so worried about her father, he'd said, that he hadn't wanted to trouble her with such a mundane matter. After all, she did agree that Wynne would make an excellent advisor, didn't she?

She hadn't been able to think of a single argument against the appointment, and had felt a fool for objecting. She'd allowed him to soothe her worries away.

But that had been just the first of many such instances. Little by little, the three of them had eased her out of the decision-making; first on inconsequential matters, and then later on the important issues as well.

It hadn't been long before she heard that the common folk were calling him 'King Rodric', rather than Prince-Consort. He'd laughed away her concerns about that. Commoners loved fancy titles, he'd said. What difference whether they called him warden or king or prince or hero? He wouldn't be surprised to hear them call him the Warden-Prince-King-Commander-Hero of the Grey, he'd teased. She'd even laughed with him over that.

She hadn't laughed when the nobles started referring to him as King Rodric too, and addressing him as Your Majesty instead of Your Highness.

It was only then that she had realised how tenuous her influence had become, and the realisation had come far too late. Rodric's position was unassailable. The people adored him, and they had forgotten who was ruler and who was consort.

And by then, she had a child to think of.

At least, she had thought with grim satisfaction when she learned of the pregnancy, it would put paid to the ridiculous rumours that she was unable to conceive. Funny how it had never seemed to occur to anyone that the problem might have lain with Cailan.

There could be no suggestion that the boy was not Rodric's, either: the babe was the very image of his father, and that sent a chill down her spine. Then and there, she had determined to ensure that little Gareth would be raised by her values, not by his.

Rodric had seized on Gareth's birth as the perfect excuse to exclude her from the 'burden' of decision-making altogether. She needed to concentrate on raising their son, he said. The boy was too important for his care to be left to others.

It was the first thing in many months that they had both agreed on.

It also gave her ample opportunity to think, and plan.

And plan she did. She was still her father's daughter, after all.

The wonderful irony of it was that it was Rodric himself who had put the solution in her hands. In those early days, when he had been so eager to impress her, he had told her many stories of his adventures. One such story had been about a merchant, right here in Denerim's market district, who was also a representative for the Antivan Crows.

And he had let slip, just once, the man's name.

Anora had a faultless memory.

Soon, Anora would be taking her customary weekly stroll outside the palace, accompanied as usual by her maid, her personal guards, and little Gareth.

It was market day, after all. And she did so love to shop.


End file.
